Entirely Up To You
by PhantomInspector
Summary: A long time ago, he held her in his arms. Back when she was more portable. Then a new deal was made, and Rumplestiltskin found himself confronted with an interesting choice. Written in response to 02x02 "We Are Both".
1. The New Deal

**Well, OUAT has managed to take root in my head these last few weeks, and last night's episode has finally pushed me into writing some fanfiction. I'm officially on the bandwagon! First OUAT fic, obviously, so enjoy and let me know what you think!**

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Entirely Up To You

When he magicks himself into the main hall, Rumplestiltskin expects to be met with resistance. Half-expects it, at least. The circumstances of his client, after all, have changed, in no small part thanks to him. When the conspicuous emptiness of the room touches him, his nerves twinge a little in warning. Something is not quite right. He can't say he's _not_ glad to be able to approach the lord and lady of the manor with his usual dramatic flair, undisturbed. He's beginning to grow a little tired of people swinging swords in his face in the hopes that the Dark One will be intimidated by a sliver of steel. Still funny, but also tedious.

No such displays here. No attempts at heroism or escape. His arrival is expected. Not many clients have been half so gracious as the couple seated beneath the marble archway. That's a joke, of course. They're not being gracious – Rumplestiltskin can read the fear in the man's eyes, and the veiled disdain in the woman's. They've just decided not to be fools. A few armored knights do stand at attention along the walls – the standard security measure. Pointless, to be sure, but nobles are nobles. They have plenty to lose and enough sense to guard what they consider precious to them.

The ancient imp wonders if in fact this is the case now. The stiff, somewhat regal posturing of the lord and lady and their knights form a sparse gauntlet around a white crib. No sound issues from the crib, but Rumplestiltskin can sense the being lying in its comforting confines. He can't help but smile widely, hoping to increase the unease of his hosts.

"What a pleasure it is," he announces without being addressed first – formality as the nobility defines it has long lost its charm on him. He's established his own rules of etiquette. "To see my lord and lady so well, and so eager to uphold our deal."

"Your deal is with me," states the lady. Her red hair, once loose and relaxed the way peasants wear it, sits high on her head in a braided crown. She still has some youth. Not quite the slip of a girl he met a few years ago, face tear-stained and eyes imploring for help. Outwardly she was like many girls who've called for his aid in a moment of desperation. At first he expected things to play out rather typically. Now, though, even Rumplestiltskin can't brush off the glint of icy resolve in Lady Cora's eyes. There is intelligence and, even more unsettling, cunning in her gaze. Much good that does her now, though. Her firstborn is being presented to him on a metaphorical platter. For all they know he does view his reward as sustenance. The tales about him have certainly taken on a life of their own these many years. He, more often than not, is disinclined to contradict them. It's good for business.

"But of course." Rumplestiltskin bows low, arms extending in mock courtliness. "And if you wouldn't mind, I would like a moment to examine the . . . merchandise."

He giggles at the squirming Lord Henry. The man is, for all Rumplestiltskin knows and cares to know, the child's father, yet he seems incapable of asserting any say in the proceedings. Obviously his wife has informed him of the arrangement, yet no threats or entreaties came the Dark One's way to somehow alter or cancel the deal. And now he watches the lady glance sidelong at her husband and raise a hand that dismisses him as if he were an intrusive insect. That he is.

"Leave us," she then directs at the knights. Like automatons they obey without question. The protectors of the hall abandon their posts to follow the cowardly Henry out of sight. Rumplestiltskin's grin widens. The miller's daughter has adapted well to her new role. He never doubted that. Even the yards of emerald silk skirts and the bejeweled bodice seem more natural on her than the modest chemise, blouse and petticoat she wore when she summoned him to the tower filled to the ears with straw. A pity her status will decline in a handful of years. War and droughts will reduce the standard of living for these nobles until they have about as much as the serfs who work their land. Rumplestiltskin sees it and never mentions it to Cora or her husband. It's part of the price. There is always a risk that the happily ever after you strive for won't be clear of pitfalls of its own, even without the interference of magic.

In this moment, the future of Lord Henry and Lady Cora is of no concern to either person remaining in the hall. The lady keeps her dark, chilling eyes on Rumplestiltskin while gesturing toward the crib. "Please, have a look."

He does. He nearly skips up the steps in giddy anticipation. Pink and white blankets that line the cradle suggest it's a girl. The child stirs as he approaches, blinking sleepily in the dim light of the hall's torches. He lets himself giggle some more. "Lovely. A lovely little thing, aren't we?" His large, mud-colored eyes turn up to Lady Cora. He doesn't need to ask for permission to hold the infant, but he wants to gauge his client a little more. He's waiting for panic and doubt to replace the business-like coolness in her expression.

Cora simply nods. A small nod to acknowledge that his asking permission at all, even without words, is an extra courtesy on his part. Although he smiles his eerie smile at her, something deep inside Rumplestiltskin twists in revulsion at her compliance. Perhaps the price he asked wasn't as high as she led him to believe. She seemed thoroughly distraught at the time he made his offer. Then again, she's had more time than one normally expects to come to terms with the situation. Three full years of avoiding the inevitable days of meeting and separation.

At least they didn't publicly announce the birth, only to willingly surrender the child a short time later. That would have aroused Rumplestiltskin's suspicions to an uncomfortable degree. The deal was already struck, but that didn't stop him from reconsidering the terms. To grant her the life she now led, and an exit from the one she wanted to escape, she needed to give up something truly precious. Many women don't even consider the idea of a child as payment. If they do, they might try to convince themselves that the loss of one child will not be so great a burden – not, at least, if they are fertile enough to have more. Terror and regret come later, right around the moment they can imagine their child as a real, breathing thing that they love, and as a part of them. Suddenly there are tears. Suddenly there are painfully desperate pleas for forgiveness or renegotiation. They can't, they mustn't. Almost always the same scenario.

Almost always.

Cora sits straight and flat against the tall wooden seat that she must view as a modest version of a royal throne. Her hands clench the armrests like a cat, kneading in meditation. Her eyes fasten on him like a hawk on a bold mouse. Rumplestiltskin does not betray any uneasiness at her composure. He turns his full attention on his prize. Long, grayish fingers with claw-like nails wiggle as they dip into the crib. They clasp around the infant and her soft wool blanket and hoist her up. She's more awake now. He brings her to his chest and holds her tightly so they may both get an eyeful of each other.

The baby's brow furrows, folding the soft skin of her high forehead in an endearing way. She's surprised and slightly perturbed, he can feel it. He finds it easier to sense babies' feelings than adults' with magic. Adults have a more complicated make-up. Their feelings, whether they know so or not, are more layered. A child holds simpler desires. He can feel an impulse to cry building up inside the little bundle of joy, but she hesitates. She's still deciding if it's necessary. As she does, she wriggles her fist out of the blanket and starts sucking on it. Crystal-clear drool leaks out of the corner of her mouth and flows across her chubby, rosy cheek. She is quite beautiful with her fair skin, silky black hairs and round dark eyes.

Another laugh bubbles out of him. Such a precious item. Rumplestiltskin peers up to check Cora's face for any glimmer of offense at his proximity and attentions. The lady fortifies her stony façade with an unflinching gaze. She's a tough egg to crack. It only spurs him on. He waltzes away from her, back down the steps, and coos at the child. He leans in close and breathes in her young scent. Sweet and clean and happy, like fresh fruit from a well-tended orchard. For all of Cora's attempts at feigned detachment and her husband's weak resolve, he can tell the child has been loved for what little time she's existed in this world. It assures him for more reasons than he's willing to express even to himself.

The infant keeps staring at him, not quite as anxiously as before, while he softly babbles nonsense at her. He spins slowly, rocking her into comfort. Her licorice eyes scan him, trying to make some sense of the unearthly beast holding her. Pausing a moment, he returns her stares and wipes away the river of spittle from her cheek with the blanket. It's now he notices some stitching on the side pressed against him. It's a name. He reads it and looks up at Lady Cora. "Regina. A name fit for a queen!"

"That _was_ the original idea," Cora answers dryly.

"Ah." He's hit on something. There's more than coldness in Cora's voice. She's trying to hide it, but the heat of buried emotion always rises up and finds a way out, like steam from a pot or lava inside a volcano. "Well, dearie, who's to say she won't become one someday? Of course, _you_ won't be around to reap the benefits of such a happenstance, but you can at least rest in the happy knowledge that your daughter will live a better life than you."

Cora takes a slow breath. She's trying not to rise to his taunt. He smiles wickedly at her restraint. She certainly keeps things interesting. "You and I both know that was not stipulated in our contract," she remarks frigidly. "But . . . I do wish for her to have a good life. I understand that you are not obligated to tell me what will become of her . . . but I would like to know all the same."

How calmly she asks! Such control and refinement. He finds it annoying, actually. While he does enjoy watching people tremble and bargain for leniency, and all the more so in this exact situation, it isn't purely for his entertainment. Parents ought to fight for their children, tooth and nail. Cora wants to treat this with political tact, not motherly fervor. He doesn't care if she is concealing true concern for her daughter; it still puts him off. He's hardly ever wanted to whisk away with his prize more quickly than now.

"You can be sure she will have all the considerations one would expect to give such a sweet, lovely child." That is all the specificity she deserves. More than she deserves, really. Feeling their interlude has continued long enough, Rumplestiltskin pivots to depart.

He is ready to believe that all has been settled. He wants to believe it. But, then, he could just magick himself out of there in a purple cloud rather than walk down the blood-red carpet to the door. Sometimes his choices are mysterious even to him. He tells himself that an abrupt teleportation spell would disturb the baby. He'll let her get used to him holding her first.

"Rumplestiltskin." The voice of his cool-headed client rings in the chamber like a death knell. He feels the pull of someone eager to barter. "I'd like to make another deal."

He stops where he is. The child wriggles and whimpers. Her forehead wrinkles again in unhappy confusion. Without thinking to do so, he gently bounces the babe in his arms and shushes her in his softest voice. Then he turns on heel and regards Lady Cora. His characteristic smirks and smiles are nowhere to be seen.

"You don't have anything I want anymore, dearie." His voice cuts through the empty hall like a blade.

Cora's voice come back to parry. "I'm pretty sure I do. You see . . ." She rises. The smallest hint of a smirk flickers across her painted lips. Rumplestiltskin feels his heart sink. He's beginning to understand what has happened. He's entangled himself with a girl who is really a dragon in disguise.

"You see, I have been quite busy these last three years. Not just with establishing my place as a noble or preparing for childbirth. I've been studying quite a bit, too." She descends the carpeted steps with smooth grace, as if she's been bred and groomed for power all her life. "Just the usual things one might expect of a noblewoman: etiquette, politics, strategy, economics . . . ancient sorcerers with personal agendas."

Rumplestiltskin's brow dips into a subtle scowl. A small hand, undoubtedly covered in saliva, grasps the lapel of his dragonhide coat. He pays it no mind.

The smirk on Cora's mouth lets itself be seen. She clasps her hands before her as she walks toward him. Is she still trying to look demure and innocent? He stays very still while she draws near. His gaze flits up and down her figure to make it seem he's assessing her like an item in a market. Really, he wonders if she has a wraith hiding underneath all those skirts.

"I came across a story – an older one, perhaps the oldest out there – that claims you are searching for something. It can be recovered only with very powerful magic." Her dulcet tones taste to his ears like sweet, poisoned wine. He locks eyes with her to steady himself. The move seems to encourage Cora to come closer. When she's just a pace away from him, she starts to circle Rumplestiltskin. Tempted as he is to follow her with his eyes, he instead turns himself into a living statue, staring straight ahead and doing nothing except breathe and firmly hold a gurgling infant to his chest. He realizes she's gurgling because she's suddenly very interested in the texture of his jacket. Her surprisingly strong fingers play with the open flap of the coat and slap and scratch at the leathery material.

"Where did you hear such a fanciful tale?" he asks, letting feigned amusement slip into his voice to throw her off.

"Does it really matter? If it's true, I'd like to be of help."

Every fluid in his body turns to ice. His lips curl into a half-snarl, but he still doesn't look her way. She's coming around behind him. She'll see his face soon enough. "Not possible, dearie. No one can help me."

"Ah." She steps in front of him. Her smile is both gentle and triumphant. "So there _is_ something you want beyond your silly deals. And what makes you think I can't help? I have magic now, too."

"Hardly," he snickers. "A parlor trick. That's all you have. You don't think I actually taught you anything useful with my little book, do you?" He throws a nasty cackle in her face.

Cora raises her chin, deflecting his words and laughter. "I could learn more. You can't say I didn't learn quickly and use it well."

True. In spite of what he knew her future held in store, she's used what little power he bestowed to ensure a comfortable life with her husband. Their hall is empty of people, but not of fine carpets, expensive tapestries and golden tableware and decorations.

"Perhaps," he hisses under his breath.

"Tell me what it is you want."

Another cold front passes through him, from his scalp to his toes. He hates it when his own words come back at him. He meets her gaze, anyway, and smirks. "All right, dearie. I'll tell you what I want. There is something in another world I need to retrieve. Something very precious. The only way to get it is to cast the most powerful curse the Realms have ever known."

Lady Cora nods. He wonders if she's still composed because she doesn't understand the gravity of his wish, or if she has no qualms about dabbling in dark magic. If it's the latter, maybe letting her use his book has posed a greater risk to him than he could have ever conceived.

"Fine," she says. "Why haven't you been able to do it yet?"

"There's a lot to prepare for. Can't rush a curse like this one, dearie. Every drawback must be considered. The pieces must be in just the right place for it to happen. I have all the time in the world to set the stage."

A breath of silence passes between them. Cora studies him, then studies the child. Rumplestiltskin feels the infant's head press against his chest. He looks down to see that she's turned her face up to look at his, her rosebud mouth wet and slightly agape. Her features suddenly strike a familiar chord in him. The eyes, especially – deep, warm and innocent. They remind him of another baby he held many years ago. The resemblance, even it is mostly a projection of his inmost desires, sends a needle of pain through his heart.

"Here is the deal," Cora declares at last. She's already decided on what to say. In such a short time. Rumplestiltskin is liking her less and less. At the same time he's increasingly impressed. "I will provide you with whatever you need to make the curse happen, on two conditions. The first is that my daughter and I are safe from harm while the curse is in effect. The second . . . is that you return her to me, right now, and I raise her in whatever way I see fit."

Her words settle around them like airborne dust. Stories have been passed around that the terrible Rumplestiltskin cannot resist a deal. That's not entirely true, but it's not that far from the truth, either. It all depends on what's being offered. And this girl from nowhere – the child of a poor but ambitious miller – has placed her finger on the pulse of his greatest desire. She doesn't understand it entirely, of course. That's a small mercy he'll cling to. It doesn't change what she is offering, though. Her conditions have been specific, but not what she's willing to do for him, and that makes the deal all the more irresistible. And she _knows_. She _knows_ and it frightens and intrigues him that she reads him as well as she does. He's equally inclined to shake her hand and strangle her.

Rumplestiltskin does find this deal irresistible, but he cannot accept it yet. He steps back and does what his clients should do whenever he presents them with a tempting contract. He thinks it through. He thinks and clutches the child that is now, by conditions of the first deal, rightfully his. His feet hardly make a sound as he paces across the hall. Now and then he shoots a glare at Cora, to make it clear he knows she's watching him. Watching him _squirm_. Oh, yes. He most definitely hates and admires her right now. He didn't see that price coming his way.

For this new deal to work, he has to be sure that Cora can provide him with most of what he needs for the curse. His studies on the subject have made the most important element clear: the ultimate sacrifice. The death of the thing you love the most. But Rumplestiltskin has nothing he loves in this world. That is why he needs the curse, and yet that's also why he can't cast it. He has vowed to love nothing else as a sign of unbending devotion to his quest. Now it's his greatest obstacle to what he wants. So he needs someone else to make the sacrifice in his stead. Someone he can wield and control to fashion the curse to suit his needs.

He turns his eyes to Cora again. Now he sizes her up, and to his relief a trace of discomfort colors her face. Whether or not she actually loves her daughter enough to involve herself so intimately with a creature like him, her desperation is potent. Rumplestiltskin reaches out and dissects it. They are all bound by desperation – his clients by immediate need, he by a long-reaching goal – but everyone's individual desperation has a distinct taste. He has to know if love lurks in the cocktail of motives propelling Lady Cora to this arrangement.

Even with magic, it's a challenge uncovering the true impulses of a person. Certainly not with someone like Cora. She guards herself on many levels, even within her own mind. To him, though, that fact is evidence that her intentions are far from pure. A candid mind and heart pose fewer barriers, and thereby are easier to trust. Cora's soul feels like a labyrinth inside a Russian doll. If he tries to delve too far, he'll become lost. So he pulls out of her, away from her, and physically turns his back and stares down at her daughter.

Just a minute ago he believed little Regina was loved and well taken care of. But now he considers the actions of her parents. Her father, who left his infant at the mercy of his overbearing wife and the Dark One. Her mother, who was willing to trade away her unborn child in the first place. She's trying to reclaim her now, of course, but the baby is already out of her power. If he says no, what will she do? Find another way to get her back? Even if she does, he still fails to sense the powerful tug of parental protectiveness and caring. She may very well not see the child as her _daughter_, her _family,_ but as her possession. Something of hers that she wants back by virtue of her being the previous owner.

That thought alone impels Rumplestiltskin to leave with the baby. Lady Cora will have other children she can groom into social climbers – into potential future kings and queens. She has surrendered this one in exchange for a new life. One life for another. A fair trade. He can dismiss any sympathy or empathy for her motherly woes. The only matter keeping him in that depressingly empty hall is what he will get out of it.

He needs the curse to get Bae. He needs his son more than anything in the world – more than food or sleep or oxygen; by extension, he needs that curse more than any of those things. And, unfortunately for Lady Cora, Rumplestiltskin feels quite sure she can't help him cast it. It requires someone capable of love. It requires someone who can both truly love and who can hate with enough passion to sacrifice that love for terrible power. Cora can do neither. She neither loves nor hates with nearly enough depth. She is calculation and temperance. She seeks power on her own terms. He cannot push her to the brink. She is already ruthless, and he can't take her much farther than where she already is.

That's it, then. There's no deal to be made. She can't give him what he wants. He's ready to tell this to her, to turn and gladly deliver this disappointing news, when the child he's forgotten he's holding gives a shriek. Rumplestiltskin awakens from his ponderings. He looks and understands that the cry is not from fear or pain. The baby has taken hold of the ruffled cravat around his neck. Her little mouth bends into a delighted, open smile. She tugs and shrieks again, demanding to be given free reign of her new plaything.

He lifts her up so she can reach for the fabric, and so that he can look more squarely into her little face. He watches her yank at the ruffles, feel their delicate softness between her fingers, and stuff them in her mouth.

A new possibility dawns on Rumplestiltskin. As little Regina enjoys gnawing on his cravat with toothless gums, he lightly touches her temple with his thumb. He closes his eyes. Images flash before him. They pass quickly, like any other vision, but he can discern what he sees without doubt. There's a young, vibrant, beautiful woman with shining eyes and flowing black hair. She rides across a field on horseback, laughing and brimming with life. He watches her descend from her beloved mount and greet an aged Lord Henry with a warm hug. Her emotions and desires emanate from her like heat waves. She glows in the love she and her father share, but she also hungers for freedom – freedom to be who she wants and to love who she wants. She yearns for so much, but in this moment she cannot conceive of hurting anyone to get those things. She's not desperate yet. She doesn't feel trapped yet. Love is still thriving in her life, if only in a few select people.

The vision fades. Rumplestiltskin opens his eyes to meet the coffee-black irises of an innocent child. She's still chewing on his garment, unfazed by the bit of magic he's performed on her. He sees two things at once. There's the woman in his vision, the one who is so perfect for his purpose. Loving and harmless, yet surrounded by forces that will wreak so much damage on her if he lets it. The greatest force is standing a little ways from them, her vulture eyes never leaving them alone for a moment.

There's also a reminder of what he's lost, and a reminder of why he made this deal in the first place. He can never, ever replace Bae. He will always be searching for a way to get him back. But that doesn't mean he needs to leave the void in his life utterly empty. A small dose of companionship would make existence just a little more bearable. And he could do it. He could leave right now – leave Cora stupefied from what she's lost. He can raise this girl as his own and wait for another solution to come his way.

And he knows what will happen if he agrees to this deal. It won't be like other deals, where the unpleasant results are largely the fault of outside forces. The world is to blame, not he, for being so unfair. And those people were able to choose for themselves. Not so with this child. If he agrees, her life is his weapon to wield. Cora will have her own part to play – a part she has already agreed to – but he will guide her actions to his ends. He will push and poke her to become what he needs her to be. Her fate will be decided in her infancy, and she will have no choice.

No, he thinks. Everyone has a choice. He'll come back for her when she's grown, when she has a fully formed mind to make her own decisions. He'll do everything he can to get her to do what he desires, but it will _still_ be her choice in the end. Just as he chose to become the Dark One, even if the old beggar did his fair share of provocation. He's accepted that, and so will she, one way or the other.

But even as he thinks this, a small, quiet voice creeps up from the depths of his blackened soul and whispers in his conscious mind. _You don't have to do this. You want Bae, yes, but look at her. Look at how much she reminds you of him. Would you put him through this? You would murder anyone who dared place him in this situation._

But she's not Bae. She and no one else will ever be Bae, and that makes all the difference. He must love no one else, not matter how large that void is.

So Rumplestiltskin quells the annoying little voice. He gently frees his cravat from Regina's ruthless grip. She whines at this. He smiles. "Very well," he says while turning back to Lady Cora. He quickly closes the distance between them until they are uncomfortably close. He breathes right in her face as he speaks. "But you understand what this means, dearie. What_ever_ I need you to provide me for the curse, you will provide it."

"I understand," Cora answers without a hint of uncertainty or regret.

"Then it's a deal." He gives the infant one more smile, adding a giggle to it. To his and her mother's surprise, she giggles back.

Cora's arms quickly replace Rumplestiltskin's around the child. She still demonstrates no impassioned relief or gratitude at holding her daughter again. There is a long exhale she releases through her narrow nostrils, but that's it. His plan for the next thirty years starts to write itself in his head as he regards mother and daughter. He waits and watches them with a tilting head while Cora tries to soothe her now grumpy child. The infant's face winces and begins to turn red. That cry may decide to burst forth after all. _Maybe we really do belong together_, Rumplestiltskin thinks with immense amusement.

"Well!" he announces as the baby starts to fuss in her mother's grasp. He claps his hands together. "Why don't you summon your nurses to tend to darling Regina so we can set to work?"

For the first time in a long while, Cora regards the imp with a puzzled expression. Gods, how he's missed it. "Set to work on what?"

"Your magic lessons, of course." His smile puts all his sharp brown teeth on display. "You want to help me with the curse, right? No better time to start than the present!"

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**While this certainly can remain a one-shot, I did consider adding some more to this to further examine Regina and Rumple's relationship over the years. What do you think? Do let me know. Reviews will be cherished like newborn puppies.**


	2. The Start of Things

I cannot believe I managed to finish this before next week's episode. The Canadian promo prompted me to commit my take on Rumple and Cora's past relationship to print before it became totally AU (although it's somewhat AU already because apparently Henry was a prince). Thank you for your love and encouragement! I really thought I was going to leave this as a one-shot. Will gradually add more (and adjust headcanon) as new episodes premiere. Meanwhile, enjoy!

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The morning after Cora's conversation with the dark sorcerer, whose name she still refuses to speak, Lord Henry feels a new, shining hope for the future. Their daughter has somehow been spared a grim fate. She is still with them. He can still be a father. The thought makes his heart swell to the point of bursting. It doesn't matter if it's against propriety: as soon as he's up and dressed, Henry foregoes his morning ride and ascends the steps to the nursery with bounding gait. He finds the room and, on opening the door, he drinks in the scene like a parched camel. The walls of the little chamber are drenched in gold and lavender. Sunlight pours through the rose window, dousing the room in a heavenly patina and caressing the curtained crib where his darling child rests. Her nurse, Prunella, lifts her out of bed and begins to rock her. The door creaks as Henry pushes it further ajar. The nurse turns around, her head capped with a white veil, and smiles at him. She's positioned so that the crib's pink curtains protect her face from the sun, but her teeth shine like pearls even in the shadow. She mirrors Henry by beaming with bliss, then remembers herself and takes time to curtsy.

"Good morning, your lordship. I trust you are well?"

"More than well. Better than I have felt in some time." Henry comes close to her and her charge. "How is the little dear today?"

"She slept quite well last night." Prunella's eyes meet Henry's in delight. They have both lived in dread of the day now behind them. To stand here with the infant in their midst feels like a miracle. Even if he wanted to hide it, Henry's joy flows out of him like water liberated from a dormant geyser. He's known Prunella for years, since they were both children. It would be selfish to pretend there isn't something special about this moment.

With a sigh he says, "So did I. I was so afraid that . . . no. No more of that. I did not mean to disturb you. I was only wondering if . . ."

He tentatively raises his hands, feeling a little foolish. If Lady Cora were here, he would have reason to feel this way. His wife never fails to remind him of how clumsy and careless he can be. Prunella instead whispers, "Certainly," and sets the child in her master's arms. Her hands guide his, with butterfly touches, in how to hold the delicate creature. Steeling himself with a breath, Henry accepts the weight and cradles his girl against him as though his life, as well as hers, depends on it. Little Regina whines for only a few seconds. Her orbs shimmer like coffee in a porcelain cup. They alight on him. A shame they look puzzled and detached—a stranger's gaze—but he won't let that discourage him. They now have a lifetime to get to know each other.

"She's a good girl," Prunella croons. Henry hears the tiny hitch in her voice. "Made hardly any fuss last night or this morning. I woke early to give her her bottle, but she dozed right off afterwards." She's about to continue, but when she looks at Henry again something stalls her.

"Yes?" he gently asks.

Demure to a fault, Prunella folds her hands in front of her, yet her eyes do not flinch. "I was wondering if you and her ladyship intend to send out official notice of her birth. I know before . . ."

"Oh, yes, of course!" Henry tries to laugh away her anxiety. "I'll get on that today. Before I do, though . . . I don't wish to interrupt your schedule, but I would like to escort this fine young lady" (he gives his child's chubby hand a squeeze) "around the grounds for an hour or so. You may accompany us, of course. Perhaps after lunch." He smiles and raises his eyebrows expectantly. He has no reservations for Prunella's presence. It would comfort him to have a professional caretaker on hand if, by chance, he accidentally mishandles Regina.

"As you wish, my lord." The formal response is laced with a measured grin and enough glee to make the room glow. Prunella, Henry notices, has apple-green eyes that can be playful and motherly at the same time. They've been that way since her youth. It seemed her destiny to be a nurse like her mother, given her temperament as well as her station. Henry wonders, not for the first time, if she intends to remarry and have more children of her own.

Although his heart aches from giving her up, Henry returns Regina to the nurse's care. He still feels the child's heaviness in memory after he departs and resumes his daily duties. Finances to account for, contractors and stewards to negotiate with, inexperienced servants to school—none of these tasks shake his yearning and resolve to spend the afternoon with his daughter. Time works against his patience, especially without Cora around to converse with on matters concerning the estate. She's spending even more time today in her conservatory than usual. The fact vexes Henry, but it does not surprise him. He simply sighs at her absence and makes do.

The lunch hour finally arrives like a long-awaited carrier pigeon. Henry is prepared to eat his meal alone until he spots Prunella on his way to the dining hall. She's coming down the stairwell with a blanket-swaddled bundle in her arms. A gaggle of voices from Henry's upbringing emerges in his mind to discourage his impulse to catch Prunella's attention. 'It's not proper to mingle with the servants. The lines of status must be upheld, especially for a lord.' Even Cora's voice chimes in, a fresher addition to the choir of naysayers. He knows he's not a brave man, but that truth gives him the impetus to shush the ghosts of his teachers and call out to Prunella. It's not all that inappropriate. They grew up together. As playmates they'd understood each other better than most. Their friendship didn't stop them from becoming the people they knew they would have to be. Henry is only grateful that she decided stay at the estate after her marriage, and then after her husband's passing.

Prunella blinks, startled, at Henry's address, but she smiles and curtsies through her surprise. "Yes, my lord?"

"I . . . I wanted to inquire," Henry begins, feeling a flurry of embarrassment at the unorthodox request, "whether you and Regina would care to have lunch with me in the dining hall."

"Oh!" Prunella's smile drops. She clears her throat. "But I imagine Lady Cora would prefer to share that time with you."

She tries to keep her tone light and pleasant, but it sinks a little at the end of the sentence. Henry gives a kind half-smile. "I think we both know by now that Lady Cora is . . . an independent spirit. She takes meals at her leisure. As far as I know, she is still in the conservatory."

With a swallow, Prunella returns the smile and hoists a watchful Regina higher onto her shoulder. "Well . . . if you insist, my lord, allow me to fetch Miss Regina's bottle. As for me, I am not hungry."

She departs for the kitchen before Henry can speak. Even with Prunella he hardly ever manages to assert a word of persuasion. He already has a plan, however. He walks to the dining hall and orders a servant to tell the cook to prepare another place at the table, and to then leave the hall to him and his guest. He sits and waits patiently. He's been patient all day; a few more minutes won't be the death of him.

Or so he believes, until Prunella enters the dining hall via the kitchen with a rather put-out look. One soft, slender hand grips Regina's bottle and tilts it against the babe's eager mouth. The child remains blessedly ignorant of her caretaker's ire.

"My lord, I said I do not require any food. I ate not a quarter of an hour ago!"

Henry does not stop himself from wincing at this abuse. "Please, Prunella, there's no reason to be cross. I don't like eating my meals alone. Come, sit! Ask for whatever you wish."

"I wish to keep to my duties."

Her sharp tone hurts him more that he wants to show. But Henry bucks up what little courage he has to stand and draw out a chair beside him. "I wish to see my daughter while I eat. She cannot sit up by herself."

For a very long minute Prunella keeps herself and the child at a distance. Her forehead crinkles with many thoughts and her eyes dance about to Henry, the table, the room, Regina, and back to him. It's not so much propriety or gossip she worries about. In their youth they were never nearly as concerned about such things. It was fine for a young, unmarried lord to converse with a trusted servant now and then in less than formal circumstances. And, with the passing of both of Henry's parents, there was no one around to observe them and hiss judgmental breaths down their necks.

Not until now. The old anxiety has crept back into the atmosphere of the household. Marriage comes with its own laundry list of constraints that Henry admittedly hasn't wholly foreseen. Although he could convince himself that there is nothing compromising about this situation, he can't deny the possibility that Cora will seek him out after her toils in her favorite place and insist on making something out of his letting Prunella eat lunch with him like an equal. He won't offer any real argument against her peevishness, for from a noble's standpoint it is perfectly justified. Still, as he considers these things, Henry does not give up his grip on the chair. He watches Prunella and Regina together. It is about the child, nothing more. He doesn't want to let her out of his sight, even if his obligations force him to do so.

Some boldness flickers back to life in him. He returns to his seat. "I want to inquire about her health. So, consider it your duty to tell me everything about it."

He remains standing with a serious countenance that threatens to melt into something warmer. Prunella's eyes soften when she catches the subtle upward tug of his mouth. Her body shrinks with sighing. Her cheeks suddenly pale, as though she is very exhausted, but she brightens a little when she comes forward and sits at the table. She tries to hide the light in her face under a blanket of sobriety. Henry understands. When the butler materializes with a plate for his master, Henry thanks him and lets him know that the second plate won't be needed, after all. His companion permits a grin to peek through her collected façade.

"Thank you," she says. "What would you like to know? I'm afraid Regina is the most well-behaved, healthy creature I've ever dealt with. Makes things rather boring, I must say."

Tension abates and the pair discusses the little things about the child—her sleeping habits, what clothes she will need for the season, what toys she might like. On the surface they seem like trivial subjects, but in light of the fact that, until yesterday, they thought Regina would not remain with them, the manor is now somewhat undersupplied. The conversation drifts to the past—to the toys, trinkets and clothes Henry had as a child, and what Prunella's mother had taught her about making children behave while dressing, feeding and entertaining them.

"Oh, remember the rocking-horse!" Henry cries at one point, after his meal has long been absent from his plate.

"Oh, gods, yes!" Prunella laughs. At the same time she wipes more drool off Regina's mouth while the girl squirms and gurgles with increasing impatience. "You were so reckless on that thing. You fell off more times than my mother wanted to count! All the salve and bandages she used on you! And how you cried that one time it broke. I almost cried with you, you were so heartbroken."

Henry regards Regina with a thoughtful look. "We must still have it somewhere, yes?"

"I'm certain we do. In the attic." Prunella's eyes suddenly sharpen on Henry. "Oh, my lord, you're not going to encourage this little lady here to follow in your footsteps, are you? Not at this age, at least!"

His laughter bounds around the room at his companion's admonishing tone. "I would not wish to deprive her of any of the pleasures I experienced."

"But rocking-horses are meant for _boys_," she tuts.

"Nonsense. If she wishes to use it, she may. She will not be any less of a lady for it."

"Let us hope so." Chuckling, Prunella tickles her charge. The child stills grunts from restlessness. "I think she wants us to stop talking."

"Oh, yes!" Henry all too quickly rises to his feet. He hasn't forgotten his original intent, but he has not anticipated that their time in the dining hall would be so prolonged. Confident his plate and utensils will be cleared away in the near future, he ushers the nurse and child out of the hall. He stops only to let Prunella retrieve her shawl and the valet to bring him his coat. He then escorts them into the fresh autumn air. The days are not yet too chilly for strolls without cloaks or overcoats.

"So, here it is," Henry announces when they enter the main avenue that encircles the manor and its immediate grounds. The lawn before them rolls like a calm sea toward a gauntlet of tall evergreens about five miles off. The low hills partly obscure them as well as the fields where the laborers till and sow and harvest year after year. Following the avenue on their right, they can see its gray, winding body heading toward a grove. The branches of the trees are becoming weighted with fruit, and while some leaves still retain their summer green, others resemble tongues of fire and rain down at the slightest gust of wind. On the left, the avenue snakes toward the other buildings on the estate – the carriage house, the stables, the granary. "Your kingdom, my dear," he finishes, smiling at his daughter.

The child, barely a week old, hasn't the mind to digest her father's words, but her dark eyes rove across the landscape while Prunella props her up for a better view. Regina's eyes soon return to more reachable objects – namely Prunella's bodice, and just in time to decorate it with a milky glob of saliva. Unfazed, Prunella summons her handy napkin and cleans off the 'gift' before wiping the infant's mouth yet again.

Thinking the trees will hold more visual interest for Regina, Henry gestures to his choice of route with a hand. Prunella follows his lead. The two of them match each other's strides, neither too fast nor too slow. Henry allows Prunella to set the pace, since she must judge how quickly she can walk without tiring herself or disturbing Regina. He practices making his steps more dignified, self-assured. In control. Projecting such a persona has always been a challenge for him. Frankly he tends to feel more comfortable with other people in control, but now he is the head of the household. People look up to him, depend on him to rule his domain with conviction and wisdom. Some of his servants, like Prunella, have helped him with this task before he married Cora. If only Cora could find it in her to exercise the same patience as they. She might be disappointed with him less often.

"We'll need to start collecting soon," says Prunella, nodding up. Sometime in the midst of Henry's thoughts they've entered the grove and now are walking under the limbs of the fruit-burdened trees. They beg passers-by to pluck their pears and apples and lemons. "Shall we make those apple tarts you like so much?"

"Why not?" chuckles Henry.

"Perhaps we should make preserves and sell them to merchants for market." Prunella's sweet but chesty voice often drops in pitch when she speaks of serious things. "Antonia worries that we will fall short in our duties if we don't consider every financial advantage. She just worries, of course. That's why she's still the housekeeper."

"I'm quite happy for Antonia to remain the housekeeper until she declares otherwise." Henry grins in remembrance of bygone days when he gave a much younger Antonia grieve with his bad habits. He left toys lying everywhere, and often didn't remember to clean his boots properly before coming indoors. And how noisy he and Prunella and his other friends could be, few as they were and generally children of servants. Antonia lectured him endlessly on his thoughtlessness. As a child he hated that, and as a grown man his sentiments haven't changed much. But Antonia, maybe due to old age, has harangued him less frequently about his faults. Instead she expends herself griping about the rest of the staff and where they neglect their work. All for the greater good of the estate.

Regina suddenly starts wriggling with admirable vigor as they pass under a low-bowing apple tree. The tips of its branches reach out to them like fingers, and the child takes this as an excuse to reach back with her tiny digits. Prunella coos and wrestles with the girl to calm her, but the infant is determined. Her face contorts and grows red. Eyes squint and the mouth opens into a frown that threatens to unleash a wail. Whimpers and stilted sobs start coming out.

Inspired, Henry plucks a golden-red apple just above his head. The flesh is firm, promising a crispy bite. He draws close to Prunella and shows Regina the fruit. The child stifles her sobs and instead whines with interest. Her hands are too small and weak to hold the apple, so Henry continues to hold it near her face so she can see and smell it as much as she likes. Little fragile fingers do try to grip the smooth skin. Her round eyes alone seem capable of devouring the whole thing. Both Henry and Prunella chuckle at Regina's bizarre fascination. At such a minute distance where their breaths graze each other's faces, they dare to let their eyes meet only now and then. No words are exchanged. An inordinately warm breeze sweeps through the grove and embraces them.

Yes, Henry thinks, all is right with the world. If he can, he will make sure it stays this way.

* * *

"Really? The conservatory? You're sure you don't want to go somewhere more discreet, dearie?"

Rumplestiltskin's reptilian gaze adopts a confused and condescending glint. Refusing to let her annoyance show, Cora merely shrugs and nods to the glass walls surrounding them. "No one comes in here but me. I have absolute privacy—not even the servants will disturb us unless I summon them. And the glass is warped, so you needn't worry about anyone peeking in."

Even with these factors, Cora understands what Rumplestiltskin means. Of all the places on the estate—the groves, the cellars, the distant forest—she prefers practicing magic in her personal greenhouse. To anyone else it might seem an insensible choice, but she has her reasons. Over the last couple of years Cora has discovered an affinity for plants beyond collecting and reaming grain. She adores orchids in particular, having imported hundreds of varieties from across the world. Even with her numerous attentions to the upkeep of the manor and its property, she's made it her mission to nurture the exquisite, temperamental flowers in foreign soil. It hurts when just one of them expires on her. Sometimes, against her better judgment, she wastes days wallowing in grief and wondering where she went wrong. With every failure, she strives harder for success. The flowers, which Cora now observes Rumplestiltskin surveying with half-hearted interest, live as a testament to her tenderness as well as her ambition.

"If you insist," he accedes after a moment with a careless flick of his hand. The other hand conjures up a book in a puff of purple smoke. Cora sees it when she turns away from examining the red-mottled petals of the white odontoglossums. At once she smiles, and Rumplestiltskin sends a crocodile smile back. His free hand sweeps toward the pathway between the raised flowers beds standing against the glass windows on the right and the island of deciduous saplings and shrubs on the left. The path takes them to the far end of the conservatory, which opens into a cul-de-sac and offers plenty of room not only to walk around and monitor the orchids, violets, hyacinth, narcissuses and petunias in the elevated beds and the roses and hydrangeas in the ground, but also to sit on the greenish-black bench embellished with brass studs to rest and admire one's surroundings.

"Just remember," remarks the imp in a tittering lilt, "these spells have a bit of kick the first time around. If we were in, say, a sealed-off room with stone walls, you wouldn't have to worry about bringing down the roof over our heads and hurting your precious plants."

"All the more reason to practice here." Rumplestiltskin can say all he wants, but Cora has made her choice. She's not afraid of the power he's offering her. Once she was a little, when he first appeared to her in that dungeon. It was the first time she ever encountered magic, and it left her shaking with awe and terror. Thankfully she got over her shock. The mystique of magic lost its novelty and was replaced by the very real force of it possibilities. What few spells the Dark One taught her have already brought her fortune and, while not the royal life she was first promised, a significantly more comfortable situation than where she began. Besides, Cora believes she has always been destined for this kind of power. It feels natural to bend elements and people to her will after spending half her life in degradation and misery at the hands of others.

At her answer, Rumplestiltskin giggles like an excited child. The idea of potential destruction and humiliation at her expense must be an appealing notion to him. Cora smirks at his puerile delight and gestures for him to sit down. The sorcerer reacquires some manners and accepts the offer. He lounges one arm, fitted in black dragonhide, across the back of the bench while the other loosely presses the book to his chest. His leather-chapped legs cross and his head tilts as he watches her. Cora does not sit. While she attempts to appear wholly composed with a straight posture and folded hands, her nerves burn with anticipation.

Rumplestiltskin is trying to appear relaxed and controlled, too, but she detects stiffness in his pose. It may be due to his inhibiting leather attire, but she's prompted all the same to ask a question that has waited too long to be asked.

"Tell me: have you ever done this before?"

The imp squints. "Done what?"

"Taught magic. Well, taught it to someone so they can create a curse."

He showcases a comical frown and shakes his head. "You're the lucky first, dearie."

His response lifts an unseen weight from Cora's chest. She inhales slowly and dares a small grin. "That makes two of us. Since you're the teacher, of course, you should decide where we start."

"I intend to." But he still doesn't move, except for the large eyes that minutely shift, still gauging her even now.

"What?"

He moves his hand off the back of the seat, claps both on his thighs and pushes them forward, slowly. As his hands move, his torso follows. "You must understand that, while there are standard laws that govern how magic works, no two people who accept the gift of sorcery respond to it in the exact same way."

Cora sashays half a step toward the empty seat on the bench. From this angle, Rumplestiltskin's posture becomes more feline. He's eying her like she's a daring bird on a low branch. She's beginning to understand why. Her age and sex lead most people to presume she is weak, naïve and helpless. To Rumplestiltskin, an immortal creature of incredible power, she barely ranks above an ant. Yet he's teaching her magic. But he doesn't want her to forget their roles, and so he pushes the idea through his wrinkling smirk and hooded orbs that he's ready to snatch her up in his jaws without a warning. It's a challenge Cora has accepted, and though there is probably some real danger here, she doesn't regret it.

"I see," she says. "You're saying we may need to experiment with different approaches, and be prepared for anything. I understand."

"Do you, though?" Rumplestiltskin pushes down on his thighs and rises to his feet. A few languid steps and he's standing an inch from her face. "This is not something to rush into lightly. From now on, you must do all I say during our lessons. No arguing. No fussing. _Complete_ obedience. Otherwise you'll learn nothing, and you'll end up wasting my time. And I _really_ don't like my time wasted."

"Because it's so precious to you, a centuries-old wizard?" Cora quips.

The warm, closeted air of the conservatory seems to thicken around them. In a move that sends a spark down Cora's spine, Rumplestiltskin presses his finger into the underside of her chin. He angles her head up, though he doesn't need to for their eyes to meet. He's exposing her neck—a reminder from a wolf to a sheep who has the fangs around here. "Because if you won't do what I want," he murmurs, "I can and will find someone who will."

A small swell of panic rises and falls in Cora's chest. His domineering voice and behavior invites a few old ghosts of her childhood—her parents with hands that shoved, prodded, grabbed and wrangled. She grapples for her mental curtain to block them out. She can't manage it at first, so she chants to herself that this time it's different. She'll have what she needs to be free. Once their lessons are complete, Rumplestiltskin won't be able to enforce the same authority. She'll prove to him, too, and to herself that her will and mind are her own, even as she agrees to be his student and submit to his guidance. And even if she must debase herself from time to time for the sake of harnessing magic, all she has endured and has yet to endure will be worth it.

"You have nothing to worry about."

Rumplestiltskin grins with pleasure. He withdraws his finger. "Excellent. Now, let's begin with something basic. I have a chapter dedicated to horticulture and vegetation spells, if that's what floats your boat."

He holds up the book. The cover and pages flip open on their own to the indicated section. The smell of magic is mixing with the fragrances of her garden. It's sweet and sharp, and a little heady. Cora shakes her head clear of fleeting wooziness. She has to be completely focused. Perhaps it would be wise to consider other locations, after all.

Soon, however, she dismisses the notion. Though the imp's dark magic is changing the odor in the room and adding a heaviness to the air, it invigorates Cora and augments her concentration. The words on the page roll around her tongue and taste of spiced tea before she swallows them down to commit to unconscious memory. She learns the simplest spells in hardly any time—enhanced growth, color alteration, regeneration of damaged roots and leaves. The incantations spin in her mind like a pinwheel and require minimum strain. The more complex spells are different. While reading them off, and then using the ink itself as Rumplestiltskin demonstrates by blowing it off the page, she can replicate a young spruce in a handful of tries. When Rumplestiltskin takes away the book, however, her mind won't recall the spell, or the spell sticks inside the walls of her skull like drying syrup, resistant to her will. It's natural for a novice to not get it on her own so soon, she expects, but her frustration overwhelms her. She snarls and curses and comes close to tears.

"Take it easy." Rumplestiltskin brings down the pitch of his voice, soothing Cora's nerves. That she hasn't expected at all. His tone is stern but not mocking as he directs her. "Relaxation is key. The magic will work for you when you let it move freely inside you. Give it time to unstick."

How does he know how it feels inside her brain? Did he go through this, too? She knows he wasn't always the Dark One, though the Dark One has lived for longer than the history tomes have been able to record. So maybe he had to teach himself this control. The thought calms her even more. The replication spell still fights her, however, so Rumplestiltskin returns the book and lets her practice it some more with the text at hand.

Time and the rest of the world dissolve in a blur in the midst of the lesson. It's only when Rumplestiltskin's head whips toward the other end of the conservatory one second before someone knocks on the door that it all comes crashing back in stark relief. Cora curses under her breath.

"No one comes unless you call, eh?" The sorcerer turns to her, adding a giggle. "Have you mastered telepathic summoning without my knowledge? My my my, you may make a promising pupil after all."

"It must be Henry," Cora explains through clamped teeth. "Give me a moment. I'll deal with him."

"I think we've done enough today." He puts his palms together, finger matching finger. "Don't want to wear you out on your first day. Tomorrow, same time, we'll try a new place. My choice. Keep practicing!"

Purple smoke, or dust, winds around him like a python, bearing him away to a place Cora finds herself wishing she could follow him to. A silly idea she stamps on and does not bother investigating. She stalks down the walkway and, slowing down and assuming a more dignified air, answers the door.

It _is_ Henry, as a matter of fact, holding little Regina in his arms. His dull brown eyes instantly lower as she brands him with a pointed glare. "I didn't mean to disturb you dearest, but I . . . I thought maybe Regina might like a look at your conservatory. I just took her for a walk outside and she was thrilled by the orchard. She seems to share your love of plants."

Fear tingles in her fingers—the same ones that had been conjuring up fresh rose petals and healing her sickly poinsettias. She takes a slow, outwardly thoughtful sniff. In fact she checks the air for any trace of that magical scent. There is none. Rumplestiltskin took it with him.

Her smile stretches across her face like cowhide being prepped for tanning. "How considerate of you, dear." Ready to send him away, she spares a look at Regina. Her child, rosy-cheeked and doe-eyed. A picture of innocence doomed to be crushed like a wild buttercup under a boot. Yet Cora's heart pulls out of her a little towards the child she managed to rescue from an otherwise inescapable deal.

She tries to release her tensing muscles while moving her gaze back to Henry. "Come on in. I think the poinsettias are doing much better. She'll like them."

Henry actually smiles and steps inside, tentative but hopeful. As he gawks at her little sanctuary like an ignorant tourist, Cora takes Regina's tiny fist between her forefinger and thumb, rubbing small circles on the back of it. Her skin is as soft as rose petals.

Regina looks up at her, expression blank yet needful of more of Cora's touches. She graces her child's cheek with a light graze of her knuckle. Her beautiful child—not only a promise of the future, but proof that Cora can perform this devilish dance with her lizard-skinned mentor and come out the leader. What Rumplestiltskin exactly wants with the curse he needs, she still hasn't learned. But she will. And then all will be secure. She and Regina will be free. They'll be safe.

They'll be happy.


End file.
